


Someone Like Her

by Lizburns



Category: Person of Interest (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe, F/F, Just imagine Root and Shaw meeting well before the machine came along, Shootweek18, and banging, jfc i hate tagging, some light kinky stuff im gonna warn you about if you're not into that
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-05-29
Updated: 2018-05-28
Packaged: 2019-05-15 06:45:49
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,258
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14785496
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lizburns/pseuds/Lizburns
Summary: "Signals, body language, subtext... they're easier sometimes, they say more. They've almost got it down to a science, this back and forth of never explicitly divulging what they want. Because it's more fun that way, pulling apart the code and digging into the truth."





	Someone Like Her

**Author's Note:**

> It's been a while... anyway, this is for shoot week. No specific prompt, but something i had been working on for it.

 

A mechanical bell chimes as the silver elevator doors part ways, opening up to a long, stretching hallway.

 

The ride is over but Shaw doesn't leave right away. The command sent was somehow lost in transit. Moving forward, taking the next step, it feels more of a wishful idea than a possibility and she doesn't understand.

 

Up until now, the time spent traveling was a collection of easily forgotten details that might as well be a blur. It was raining, if she recalls. The city lights smeared in rivulets across the cab's window. She watched them fly with absent eyes, with an empty seat in her brain where a pilot should have been manning the wheel. But now the fog had cleared. It was as if the end of the line finally decided to show, suddenly, as she was about to crash into it.

 

Pull up. Hold back. Think about this for a moment.

 

The usual reluctance nags at her sleeve, it always does, but there's something different about it tonight. The claws are sharper. They sink in deeper. They'd sooner tear her apart before letting her go any further.

 

Shaw's beginning to think coming here wasn't such a good idea. To be honest, it's never been a good idea, but then again, she's never really cared for the sort of things that were good for her anyway. The burning around her collar isn't better judgment, it's a call for more fire. The devil to one side fanning the flames with little whispers in her ear. _You're not afraid, are you?_

 

At the last second, she throws an arm out to keep the elevator doors from closing again. As for the rest of her muscles still frozen with indecision, they're threatened with violence if they refuse.

 

She takes to the hallway in a sure rhythm, with a low head fixed to the strict blue carpet as if she were dodging cameras. Though she's been here enough times to know these halls are vacant of prying, artificial eyes, there's another reasoning scuffed into the floor that draws her gaze. Bent carpet fibers in the shape of footprints; Shaw wonders if they match her shoe size.

 

Retreading old mistakes. Indulgence. Excess.

 

Most of the time, she doesn't humor such irrational thoughts, but every now and then the evidence of her insanity is too loud to ignore. Every now and then, the fifteen button in the elevator appears more worn out than the rest, and if she were crazy enough to look closer, the smudge would resemble her thumbprint too.

 

_To hell with it._ Her subconscious can play all the tricks it wants. Go on and wave a hundred red flags, they'd just be a hundred wasted warnings. Chalk it up to lack of fear and consequence, that Shaw simply cannot help herself, but deep down she knows the difference. When she reaches the door marked _1508_ in golden script, she doesn't want to help herself.

 

Three times, she knocks.

 

It might be one of the more unnerving parts of nights like tonight, waiting for the door to open. There's a pang below her rib cage when she hears the distinct click of the deadbolt, something more aggressive than butterflies when the handle starts to turn. Still, she'll always glance back towards the elevator and fantasize retreat.

 

“Sameen,” she hears and it's too late. The door is open wide, the solid wood replaced by a woman and the only thing Shaw imagines is being swallowed whole.

 

Her name is Root.

 

Just Root. She made that clear the first time they met, forever ago it seems. Shaw thought it was a lie, a false name given to strangers in bars, to be known for a night and forgotten the next morning. But the name stuck just as the person it belonged to, wriggled it's way in and latched on with more than familiarity. Until it became something of an addiction for Shaw, until she was sure no other name made sense for someone like her.

 

“You're early,” Root says.

 

Behind Shaw, the dead bolt lever clicks back into place. To the left, beyond the kitchen island, the digital clock above the stove reads the time. _Five til_ , barely scratching the surface of early.

 

“Hardly,” Shaw replies with a simple shrug, freeing an arm from her jacket as she turns towards Root again.

 

It's then that she's forced to acknowledge certain details that were foolishly overlooked. Shaw was so quick on her arrival, she had failed to notice the more comfortable outfit Root had already slipped into. A robe made of a fine, shimmering fabric. Deeply, deadly red. The color of blood trickling out into the night under the pale moon of her skin.

 

Root and her long legs stalk the bare distance between them. That sense of peril Shaw settled earlier chases back up her throat.

 

“It's just...” Root goes on, helping Shaw with the last sleeve of her jacket forgotten in the mix, “I wasn't expecting to hear from you so soon.”

 

Shaw's cheeks flush, and she thinks it's because of this woman's close proximity at first. But those words poke and prod at her, they bring eagerness to mind and how often it slips by unnoticed.

 

There are rules Shaw lives by- supposed to live by, at least. Lately, she only lives to break and misshape them, bend them on a whim or whenever it suits her best. And it's been happening more often since Root's come into the picture. Shaw's lost track of the excuses, the exceptions, the lines she's drawn and erased for the sake of this strange company. She's supposed to be ghost. Use once and destroy and never let it molt into many.

 

In her damned defense, the itch was fierce tonight. The urge to scratch, unbearable.

 

“I had some down time,” Shaw explains with scarcity, a lie with inklings of truth dotted in the I's. Though, the usual restlessness in between jobs isn't what's brought her here now. No, the excuse for reaching out tonight stands apart, it goes by the name of stress and it's most sought after ending. Release.

 

“Got anything to drink?” she goes on to ask, knowing full well Root does. In the liquor cabinet is a bottle of whiskey that wouldn't be there at all if it weren't for Shaw.

 

What's left of it is split between two glasses, no more than a finger's worth but Shaw thinks it's enough to help smooth over some of her own rough edges. Hardly the case for Root, who's drink only serves as decoration, something nice to have but never use. Like she needs the courage, Shaw thinks. Hers is an edge designed for sharpness.

 

“Don't get me wrong.” Root simpers, fingers circling the brim of her glass. “I'm glad you're here.”

 

The whiskey burns going down, harder than the empty glass as it clacks against the marble counter top. “Are we doing this or what?” Shaw asks with a fire still in her throat, and it just makes Root's smirk all the more brilliant.

 

“My, someone's eager,” Root teases with a brow arched high and mighty. Shaw's beginning to hate that word, _eager._

 

“I never said I had all the time in the world.”

 

“Can't even spare a minute to do a little catching up?” Root pouts, feigned and for a moment until she leans into Shaw's space, “Or are you in that much of a hurry?”

 

_Always..._ But it's just that Shaw would rather bypass conversation altogether. Exchanges of words and personal details are another kind of investment she finds so overrated anyway. And Root knows this, but what she's really after has nothing to do with the ins and outs of Shaw's week, which are classified anyway.

 

Signals, body language, subtext... they're easier sometimes, they say more. They've almost got it down to a science, this back and forth of never explicitly divulging what they want. It's more fun that way, pulling apart the code and digging into the truth.

 

“I'm not in the mood for small talk,” Shaw tells her. “And I'm not in the mood for having my time wasted either. So if that's what you've got planned, maybe I should I go.”

 

Root doesn't bat a lash. If anything, Shaw's abrasiveness is more amusing to her than it is offensive. Curious even, the way she subtly tilts her chin and gauges everything with that look in her eyes, like she's playing with certain images in her head.

 

“Is that so?” Root finally asks. It's scrambled by a deceptive smile, but the underlying caution in her voice isn't missed. What she really means is... _Are you sure?_

 

And Shaw's never sure when it comes to Root, but she's along for the ride. Tonight, she hopes the speed is dangerous, that the collision nearly kills her, that she feels the effects long after she's walked away.

 

There's a little spark that flashes in Root's eyes when Shaw says _yes._ Its here and there and gone in an instant, but Shaw chases it anyway across Root's face, to the lift of a new smile transparent through the glass she oddly decides to bring to her lips. 

 

The drink is barely savored. Root quickly sets it down and Shaw thinks she catches that same glimmer in her in her stare, for a moment, before she's caught by something else just as blinding. Root's palm across her cheek.

 

The forced behind it wallowed somewhere between playful and sincere, nevertheless, the sting to once side of Shaw's face meant Root had understood her completely.

 

“We don't have to talk at all, but if you ever feel the need... nothing more than the safe word, okay?” Root says. Her voice is warm and callous, contradicting all in one.

 

And maybe that's why Shaw opens her mouth without thinking, _“We don't have-”_ she never finishes. Root's hand is too quick with it's own argument.

 

It's like lightening this time. Sudden, stunning. Shaw comes around with stars in her eyes, with the metallic tang of blood on her tongue and a brilliant rush when Root surges forward and presses her lips to Shaw's. It burns and leaves her reeling, and for a moment she's convinced it's purely Root and not the whiskey on her tongue.

 

“You were saying?”

 

Shaw won't make the same mistake twice. She remains still like a statue, daring not to so much as suck the sting of her broken lip.

 

Root smiles, pleased as she reaches out. The backs of her cool fingers greet the side of Shaw's face, gentle where they had been vicious before.

 

“Take off your clothes.”

 

And Shaw does, deliberately slow, down to her bra and underwear as further stipulated. Everything else pools into a neat stack on the floor by her feet. Easier to collect later. When this is over, she'll walk out that door just as fast as she entered. Or limp. Who knows?

 

Root's shameless eyes wander the length of Shaw's now partially bare form, up and down, eventually fixating somewhere in the middle. “Hmm, those aren't mine,” she says, lightly tracing the fresh patch of bruises currently taken residence on Shaw's rib cage.

 

She's right. They are most certainly the handy work of another. An enemy combatant, to be clear. About five times bigger than Shaw to be even clearer. The proof is in the contusions, a sore reminder of Shaw's skewed relationship with her work and the reason she's come to Root tonight, wanting.

 

“Should I be jealous?” Root asks, teasing of course, but Shaw decides to respond anyway. In the cleverest manner she can while obeying silence, she waggles a brow as if to say, _Maybe you should be..._

 

Root bites the inside of her cheek but her eyes never so much as spark. And Shaw doesn't know what any of it means, if Root even has the capacity to be jealous, to be riled at the thought of someone else marking up _her_ territory.

 

But there's something in the way she's smiling now. To herself, to the stack of clothes on the floor she's playing footsie with, lightly sliding them off to the side. Before she just smiles some more and kicks them across the hardwood. Like they were in the way, _her_ way.

 

If only Root knew who Shaw really worked for, how many times she's unknowingly defaced government property... seems like she'd get a better kick out of that.

 

“You keep staring at my robe Sameen.”

 

Shaw is momentarily taken off guard. Her eyes snap back to Root's only to find them gleaming arrogantly.

 

“Do you like it?” she asks, but Shaw doesn't allude anything that might elevate Root. Her expression remains stoic and iron clad, even as Root's hands take to a new and questionable task.

 

“It's made from a rare silk,” Root says as her fingers work the bow tied around her waist. The thin red strip slowly comes free, the fold in her robe parting slightly in it's absence.

 

“Smooth... lustrous...” Root curiously pulls the length of it through her hands, musing something in her mind as she wraps it around her knuckles. “Delicate, and yet-” there's a snapping sound as it's quickly pulled taut, “Silk is one of the strongest fibers in the world.”

 

She looks to Shaw then, as if a sadistic light bulb has just flickered above her head.

 

“Why don't we find out how strong it really is?” Root says in a tone dripping heavily of mischief and something unknown that stirs the restless rhythm of Shaw's heart, amplifying it even, when she begins wrapping a section of the tie around Shaw's wrist.

 

The silk feels just as Root described, soft and cool against Shaw's skin. Root's touch could very well be made of the same material, Shaw thinks, fixating in a kind of awe of Root's hands and how gracefully they move. Even though they're fashioning restraints, her fingers dance across the silk, elegant and composed like that of a ballerina's.

 

When it's all done, there is at least two feet of slack between Shaw's wrists. It strikes her oddly, when she thinks back to every other kind of bound scenario involving this woman, and she can't help but wonder why as Root leads her to the dining room.

 

There, the table lies. A high top that seats six, made of a solid wood with a dark finish. Shaw's never really paid much attention to it before, or anything else in this area of Root's apartment, but she becomes fairly acquainted with this piece of furniture, as Root beckons her to bend over it.

 

Root wanders out of sight, leaving Shaw in this compromising position she dare not move from. Vulnerable, exposed, but the least desired aspect is the waiting, it's the time that suddenly decides to move slower, it's Shaw building up in the calm before the impending storm of whatever may come.

 

She can hear Root in the kitchen now, doing god knows what for another minute that drags on for ages. When Root does come back, she brings something else with her. Shaw's breath suddenly escapes when she feels the tip of something sharp dragging up the column of her spine.

 

Root circles around holding a very large butcher knife, and it throws all of Shaw's expectations off course. But she remembers, with Root it's best not presume. If experience has taught her anything, it's to always expect the unexpected. In regards to the woman vulturing her with a deadly weapon, a cold day in hell comes to mind if Shaw ventured a guess that ever came close to being accurate.

 

She leans in and curls a finger at Shaw. “Reach those arms out for me, darlin,” she says, a hint of a southern accent drawling from her curled lips. Shaw obliges and stretches her limbs out far towards Root, who only clicks her tongue.

 

“You can do better than that,” she chides. So Shaw rises to the tips of her toes and flattens herself more against the surface, giving Root every inch she possibly can... or so she thought.

 

Root grabs the slack between Shaw's wrists and pulls. Hard. Tightening the already snug knots and stretching her out farther than the imagination.

 

Shaw winces slightly. The blunt edge of the table presses diligently against her pubic bone, the muscles still healing behind her bruised ribs tear once more under the stress. Suddenly uncomfortable, and Root just grins, tugging a little more for whatever sick measure, to the point Shaw's unsure if her toes are even touching the floor anymore.

 

“Now, whatever you do, don't flinch,” Root warns, even though Shaw's never done such a thing in her life.

 

But if it were at all possible, she thinks Root might be the one to pull it off. There's barely any time to register the knife that Root raises above her head before it's forcibly stabbed into the center of the table.

 

It's quick and it hits so close. Shaw presses her forehead to the wood and lets out a long breath. She'd really like to break a rule.

 

“Look at me.”

 

Shaw lifts her head, seeing first the knife stuck deeply into the grain between her wrists. Past that, Root leaning casually on her elbows, the tie held firmly in her grasp still.

 

“I'm sure you understand what's going to happen when I let go.”

 

Shaw glances at the knife again. It's sharp side is facing out, towards Root and the band of silk she's holding at bay. When it's released, Shaw's body will naturally recoil some, inevitably fitting the tie snug around the knife's blade.

 

“Though silk is very resilient...” Root says, all the while slacking her grip little by little, inching the apex of the silk closer to knife's edge. “It's not impervious.”

 

She releases altogether and the band slaps dangerously against the steel. It takes everything Shaw has not to fall with it, to keep her arms from relaxing and the balls of her feet from sagging to the floor.

 

“If you were to pull hard enough...” Root just smirks. The rest is an obvious predicament. Shaw isn't stupid; she knows the effects sharp objects have. If she were to pull only a fraction, it would cut the silk in two.

 

“I'd prefer if you wouldn't do that, Sameen.”

 

Easier said than done, Shaw thinks, having some trouble with the task already. She knows the names of each individual muscle in the human body and right now, after only a few minutes of being in this position, every single god damn one of them is fussing.

 

“You see,” Root begins, taking the slow walk around the table. “There are certain things that hold special value to me.” She runs the tip of her finger along the taut length of silk as she goes by, until it's Shaw's arms that she's tracing “Some things more valuable than others... Let's just say, I wouldn't like to see any harm come to them.”

 

“That is unless...” Root's stroking takes a crueler turn, when her feather touch becomes ardent, when she angles the sharp edge of her nails into Shaw's shoulder and drags them all the way down to the small of her back. “...I'm the one doing all the harm.”

 

Root and her fucking red robe disappear again, but Shaw can feel her close by, hovering, waiting for Shaw to squirm just a little a more.

 

She traces a few digits within the elastic band of Shaw's black briefs, skirting them around the edges before grasping fully with more demand. The slightest jostle as Root pulls down her underwear, it bothers Shaw for a moment, as the red band snags against the tiniest burr on the blade.

 

“There's only one person who's allowed to break my things,” she says and Shaw immediately reads between the lines in those palms running across her backside; Root feeling out her canvas before she brightens it up with new artwork. She lets her hands roam far and wide, over Shaw's hips and down the backs of her legs before taking a slight detour on her inner thigh. Shaw shivers when Root slides a finger between her legs, in shallows of her lips already slick with anticipation.

 

“Like I said,” Root hums and pulls away, “Eager.”

 

There's a disconnect that follows, as Root removes herself entirely. And Shaw thinks she knows what's coming next for once. She gears herself up, brings all of her focus straight ahead to the length of red silk resting cozily against the knife, still intact. She's determined to keep it that way.

 

The first strike isn't a test. Root's palm lands hard, square and center to the flesh of Shaw's ass, christening the silence with this perfect crack of skin connecting with skin. There's a sharp sting that follows in hot pursuit, a wave of sensation that ripples across Shaw's body as her nerve endings suddenly rouse and come to life.

 

Root lets herself linger for a moment, massaging the rising welt before she leaves. And for a moment, Shaw regrets the loss and the chilled air left in her absence, until the gap is closed again. With the same amount of forced behind the last one, Root smacks her again, hitting the same spot give or take a fraction of an inch.

 

A new pain compounds the old, and this time, Root doesn't wait for it to trickle away. A second later, she's back, again and again, with more vigor, preserving and intensifying what eventually becomes a white hot heat across Shaw's skin.

 

She counts every one in her head, every slap that begins and ends in another pleasurable shock, another rush of endorphins steadily fuzzing her senses. Each jolt sends her body forward into the table, where the most sensitive part of her bumps close, but not close enough to the rounded edge.

 

If only she were a little taller. If only she could pull herself up just a bit more and save all of that friction before it slips away. If only the thing building and building wasn't this cold sweat clinging to her body, trembling in want like a desperate addict.

 

Shaw loses count after thirty something, no longer able to wrap her mind around anything else beyond the more brilliant pain that quickly emerges. What was once an ache is now a fire running all the way from her wrists to her ankles, as her muscles continue their fight to stay balanced, as Root expands the range of her cruel deliveries to the broader horizons of Shaw's thighs.

 

In a moment of weakness, Shaw finally slips. Having let herself become so foolishly engrossed in the pain, she forgot all about the silk tie. It only took one second, one pound of pressure for it to cross the blade incorrectly. There's a sizable tear by the time she realizes her mistake, and she curses herself for it and compensates even more for the loss.

 

She lays her hands flat on the table despite the overwhelming urge to ball them into fists, buying herself more leverage, more time even though it seems to have to have slowed to the point – seconds feel like hours and it's nearly impossible to determine just how long it's been. The only constant is the reliable swing of Root's arm winding back to rain blow after blow.

 

Somewhere within the violent noise, of one thunderous clap that pulls yet another ragged groan, Shaw thinks she hears Root, speaking in that lost and reverently sweet voice of hers... _This can stop whenever you want,_ she says, _Just let go._

 

And it's considered, as much as a drowning victim considers breathing underwater in the last struggle. Shaw thinks about how good it would feel to relax her otherwise tense body, how good it would feel to ease back and let the blade have it's way with the silk tie she's come to hate and resent, consequences be damned.

 

In the same turn, it's funny in an odd sort of way, how a person specially trained to endure all kinds of torture finds herself on the verge of breaking – at the bare hands of single woman, no less. Funnier, Shaw's never thought about harming a hair on Root's head, yet, in her sensory overloaded state, she imagines ripping the knife right out of the wood and using it against her.

 

With every temptation under the sun dangling before her eyes, Shaw somehow see's past it and on to the bigger picture. Because she won't quit for the same reasons Root probably won't either. Stubbornness. Spite. Or perhaps the rules Root makes are the only ones Shaw can't bring herself to break.

 

Her knees start to buckle anyway. The silk tears regardless. Whatever sort of control Shaw thought she had, it's spiraling further and further out of reach and it's only a matter of time before her body quits. So Shaw presses her forehead to the table in a last stand against the inevitable, silently mouthing an endless string of curses she thinks might help, but all they do is fog up the clear coat.

 

_This is it_ , she thinks. Any moment now she's going to crumple to the floor, she can almost feel the hardwood touching her heels with after every stroke of Root's hand. _This is it..._

 

But all of a sudden, everything stills. The table stops inching forward, the room grows quiet, and it's a different kind of contact Shaw feels now. A blanket of bare skin against her back, the weight of another, warm and consuming. She feels those ballerina fingers dance the length of her outstretched arms, circling around her wrists as exasperated lips drag along the crook of her neck and whisper-

 

“ _Damnit Sameen._ ”

 

Then she feels herself being pulled, off and away, to another place that's much softer than the table. Root's arms are more inviting and just as strong. They keep her steady and grounded as the the world comes back in to focus.

 

“I like you too much,” Root says and presses Shaw tighter against her chest, while her other arm crawls down Shaw's stomach, towards the part of her body starved for attention.

 

Shaw cries out in another kind of relief when Root slips those deft fingers between her thighs. Ready, wet and wanting; Root doesn't waste anymore precious time teasing her way to that spot that makes Shaw shudder and moan and break a rule. She comes undone with Root's name on her lips and it feels right. _Root..._ like it was always there in the back of her throat, waiting to be released with all the tension stowed deep down in her chest. _Root..._ because anything else would just be wrong in this moment.

 

Shaw braces the edge of the table but it's Root she relies on more. If it weren't for her, she'd be riding out the rest of her orgasm on the floor most likely. They stay like this for minutes, Root holding onto her, occasionally gliding her thumbs over Shaw's hips while the last few waves ripple out and run their course.

 

Some time later, she feels Root's chin come to rest on her shoulder. “Fun, right?” Shaw hears her say, and the lungful of air she had started to let out becomes a laugh. No, fun isn't the right word, it's something else, something she couldn't begin to describe. Maybe there is no word for it.

 

“Yeah, I could go again,” Shaw mutters with a smirk, the same one probably being sported behind her back.

 

Skeptically, Root hums. She barely touches the tip of her finger to one of Shaw's cheeks in order to elicit a sharp hiss. “I think your ass would disagree,” she says.

 

Shaw chews loose the knots around her wrists in silent agreement. Her whole body aches, legs especially. They tremble and nearly give out simply shifting her weight and turning.

 

Luckily, Root is still there, although her robe is not. She must have ditched it, some time ago perhaps. The so called valuable garment lies on the floor, far across the room like it was thrown there in haste, leaving her in nothing but the black bra and underwear Shaw only caught a glimpse of earlier.

 

Now she is really staring. At Root and her perfectly disheveled hair, her flushed cheeks, her rosier lips, the glisten of sweat across her chest deeply rising and falling in the come down stages. Root and the wildness of earlier that hadn't yet left her eyes, Shaw finds herself being drawn into it again.

 

She could kiss her. The way she only thinks about kissing her. Without trying to stake some kind of claim or forfeit anything in return. Without that sense of dread following so suffocating and close. She could kiss Root the way she secretly wants to, like someone who's free and honest and real.

 

And maybe it's just the high she's still riding, but Shaw thinks she could be those things. She wraps her arms around Root's waist and draws her closer, until the unlikeliness of it all changes shape and resembles something better. Something more of a possibility than a dream, she thinks, as Root's parted lips seek out her own in the small space, hovering just before they-

 

A shrill ring breaks the silence and those lips go away, and the time she had so very little of suddenly runs out. Across the room, among the many clothes scattered on the floor, Shaw's phone buzzes and whines and pulls her back to reality.

 

She knows who's calling. She knows she has to answer.

 

And so does Root, when she tells her to, “Go ahead,” and pick it up with a half-hearted smile. She does Shaw a favor by being the first to retreat, the first to cover herself up, the first to become so utterly indifferent it's as if they're strangers all over again.

 

The truth is, they've always been strangers, Shaw thinks, and it's probably better if they remain that way. Whatever wishful ideas she had, they're pushed back where they belong. Because that's all they are, aren't they? Ideas. Nothing tangible or sustaining, just a few nice things to think about in between the turbulence of work- or life.

 

Shaw isn't sure if the two are separate anymore, but she throws her clothes on anyway and heads for the exit.

 

Root's waiting there with her hand on the knob, in that red robe just like earlier when she had let Shaw in, only now she's seeing her out.

 

The door opens, but Shaw doesn't leave right away. She lingers in the threshold, thinking maybe she should say something. Something like goodbye or thanks or hell, she doesn't know. Her mouth is just as stubborn as her legs.

 

And when too much time passes without a sound, Root does something about it. She smiles and rolls her eyes, grabs Shaw by the collar of her shirt and kisses her on the lips. Not a peck or a long drawn out kiss, but just enough and it suffices in ways that words never will, at least not for Shaw.

 

“Next time,” she says.

 

_Next time..._ Shaw will think about that in the hallway while she retraces her steps, in the elevator that takes her down fifteen floors, in the cab as she stares out the window.

 

But not at work. Never at work. That kind of thinking will get her killed.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

**Author's Note:**

> I might add more chapters, let me know what you think.


End file.
